


After Darwin, 1 October 1861

by CloudAtlas



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: Be_compromised Promptathon, Fluff, Illnesses, Multi, cuddlepile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 08:46:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11848074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudAtlas/pseuds/CloudAtlas
Summary: For the prompt:616, Bucky/Clint/Natasha, domestic fluff and/or H/C. Lots of petting dog and kitty and relaxing and self-care.





	After Darwin, 1 October 1861

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meatball42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meatball42/gifts).



> Apparently on 1 October 1861, Charles Darwin wrote "I am very poorly today & very stupid & hate everybody & everything" in a letter to his friend, the Scottish geologist Charles Lyell. It's nice to know even geniuses have shit days.
> 
> Unbeta'd. All mistakes are my own.

“What are you doing?” Clint asks as he walks past Bucky on the couch. He’s curled up in a ball much smaller than you’d expect a six foot plus slab of muscle and scowls to manage, wrapped in a blanket so only his hair and eyes are visible, with Liho tucked in between his shoulder and neck and Lucky draped over his thighs.

“I am very poorly today and very stupid and hate everybody and everything.”

Bucky’s voice is muffled by the blanket and the cat but Clint hears him nonetheless. He frowns.

“You’re quoting something.”

“And you have the worst bedside fucking manner,” Bucky mumbles.

“Hey,” Clint says gently, moving over to sink his fingers into Bucky’s hair. It’s greasy and matted but he cards his fingers through a couple of times anyway. “What’s up?”

“Steve gave me his superflu, the fucker.”

Shit. Clint will definitely catch the superflu is he hangs out with Bucky for any length of time, because he’s cursed like that. On the other hand, Bucky looks pathetic and really fucking cute; all cuddly and bleary and covered in animals.

“Scoot up,” he says, dumping his bag, toeing off his shoes and shimmying out of his jeans. He gently manoeuvres Bucky until he can slide in behind him, rewrapping them both in blankets and animals until he’s got an armful of sniffley supersoldier.

“You’ll get ill,” Bucky protests with absolutely no heat.

“And then you can look after me,” Clint replies pragmatically. “Such fun for you.”

He flails a little until he can put his hand to his phone, sending off a quick text to Natasha, politely requesting whatever it was that Bruce cooked up for Steve in the wake of his superflu. And chicken soup. He then flails some more until he reaches the TV remote, flicking through channels until he lands on Die Hard.

Which is why, when Natasha comes in about an hour later, it’s to find both Clint and Bucky red eyed, blearily watching as John McClain crawls around air ducts. Fucking superflu.

“Great,” she says, dumping her bag on the counter. “Of course you’d deliberately get flu to get out of the fundraiser tonight.”

Clint turns to look at her. He’d completely forgotten about the fundraiser.

“Didn’t,” he croaked. “Barnes is just too fucking cute.”

“I will cut you,” Bucky mumbles.

Clint looks at Natasha and he knows she can read the _see?_ in his expression. She tries to look unimpressed, but they both know Natasha agrees. Bucky is the fucking cutest. She sighs when it’s clear she can’t maintain the ruse and, smiling, brings out a syringe and a selection of vials, injecting first herself before dosing up Clint and Bucky.

“Hopefully this’ll stop me getting it,” she says, mostly to herself. “Someone has to look after you two assholes.”

“You love us,” Clint mumbles, burying him face further into Bucky’s hair. He smells of sweat and illness and it’s kind of horrible but also wonderful because he smells of _Bucky_. Clint is so gone.

“Hmm,” Natasha replies, but Clint _knows_ and it just makes him grin like the idiot he is. “Scoot up.”

Natasha ends up booting Lucky off the couch, which Lucky is less the pleased about. As soon as Natasha is settled, legs presumable tangled with Bucky’s even though Clint can’t see because of the blanket, Lucky hops back up, forcing pained grunts from everyone.

“Your dog is the worst, Clint,” Natasha grouses as Liho elegantly untangles herself from Bucky’s hair and resettles around her neck. “And by the end of this we’re going to be all sweaty and awful.”

“No one asked you to join,” Bucky says, his voice a low and painful sounding croak.

“But my shower can fit three people,” Clint points out as bursts of ridiculous gunfire clatters from the TV speakers. “So can my bed, for that matter.”

They all know this. They’ve all tested it – _frequently_ – but it bears repeating.

Liho yawns, her pink tongue and needle teeth on display, and Clint didn’t know it was possible, but apparently cat yawns can trigger him because his jaw almost cracks his yawns so wide.

“Soup in bed,” he mumbles into Bucky’s hair and Natasha smiles at him. It makes him feel warm and safe. Christ, he is _so gone_.

“If you’re good,” she says.

“I’m always good.”

Bucky snorts against his chest. Natasha outright laughs.

They’re bastards, the both of them, but Clint wouldn’t have it any other way. He twists until Natasha can rest her hand over the ball of his ankle and tightens his arms around Bucky, drifting to the sound of Alan Rickman’s hackneyed German accent.

No one notices when Die Hard finishes.


End file.
